


Wings For Hire

by KeepCalmLoveSeverus



Series: Sherlock/Johnlock Drabbles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Au!lock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Wing!lock, also he wears wings, aulock, hahaha, sherlock is a stripper, stripper!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeepCalmLoveSeverus/pseuds/KeepCalmLoveSeverus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a stripper and a tutor at his university.</p><p>John had no idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings For Hire

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by sansathegreatest on tumblr!

 

It began when he was six, and his private tutor was a very attractive (in a tall, lanky sort of way) young man. It escalated at seventeen when he convinced Mummy to allow him to go to public school for a semester ( _"Boring."_ ) and he met others like him, especially this one obviously gay "math nerd" who he allowed to kiss him, once.

It ended when Mycroft found out, and told Mummy.

Of course, the same day Sherlock Holmes' life ended, it also began.

* * *

Two years later, Sherlock Holmes had his own private dormitory, a steady job, and lessons that he  _almost_  didn't fall asleep in. Almost. They were, unfortunately, the most advanced lessons his university offered; to make up for the mental exercise deficit (and to further pad his bank account), Sherlock had taken up private tutoring, in particular of one John Watson — who, while not a  _complete_  idiot, had trouble fully grasping the minor complexities of the human circulatory and nerve systems.

"Sherlock," groaned the blond young man, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. "We've been at this for ages, I can't possibly remember anything else tonight." To accentuate the point, he snapped his text closed sharply, the crack echoing in Sherlock's room for several moments.

Slightly irritated at being forced to acknowledge the frailties of other human beings' minds, Sherlock sniffed, "It's a wonder you remember anything at  _all_ that I attempt to teach you." It was a bit risky to speak to the older student that way, especially as he was part of Sherlock's income and offending him might not go over quite so well, but John just smiled and shook his head ruefully.

"We can't all be kid geniuses, you realize?"

"I'm well aware," was the stiff, pointed reply. Stiff and pointed was how Sherlock behaved around anyone he felt even remotely attracted to, these days; he had nightmares (figuratively, of course) about someone else finding out his secret and reacting the way Mummy had, and they usually ended with Sherlock being driven from the school at pitchfork-tips.

Dramatic, yes, but Sherlock had always had a flair for that.

Shrugging off the slight, John found his customary easy grin within moments, offering, "Mike and I are going out clubbing later, if you'd like to join?" Mike Stamford, who had introduced them in the hopes of them benefiting each other, had told John that he was, "Worried about your brain exploding, spending so much time studying. You can't be a doctor if you're dead, Watson, so come out for a drink or two." And so John had agreed with very little fuss.

Sherlock regretted not being able to accept, but he had several reasons for declining with a politely sneered, "No, thank you. I've rather more important things to be doing than gallivanting about London's pubs."

Things like working at Hells' Angels, the strip club that was so far on the other side of London that there was no possible way Sherlock would meet anyone he knew, and was also his main source of income. It was a gay club, anyway (though women frequented it often, just out of pure pleasure), and Sherlock had already deduced that John was not gay, so there was even less reason to expect to see him later that evening.

Shrugging with a carefully masked disappointment, John stood and smiled again, leaving with a final comment, "Ah, well. One of these days, Sherlock."

* * *

"John, John," gasped an extremely tipsy Mike, clutching onto the more sober man's shoulders. (John had never actually been a fan of being  _drunk,_  as he abhorred vomiting, but he did enjoy spending time with a tipsy Mike.) "John, I heard about this great club the other day, we should totally go, they're just down the road!"

John tried to suggest that it might be time for Mike to stop for the night, but his friend insisted, "I think  _you,_  especially, will get a kick out of it," with a lewd wink.

He didn't agree that there would be anything in this bar to interest him (unless Sherlock Holmes somehow magically appeared), but he helped Mike in the proper direction, like a good friend.

Little did John know.

* * *

Sherlock, as he did every night he was on shift, had arrived half an hour early to stretch for his routine and get his prosthetics attached. See, Hell's Angels was  _not_  an allusion to the biking gang — no, it was a reference to the theme, which was, in fact, a hell populated with debauched fallen angels. All of the main performers were required to wear wings during their time on stage — something Sherlock had been forced to incorporate into a routine that was, frankly, too athletic for regular strap on devices. He did graceful turns around the pole, slid up and down it like a professional dancer (thanks to several years of ballet when he was younger), and often these same tricks upside down.

It was rather undignified to have your wing-set slide off over your arms in the middle of a trick, as his managers had discovered during his audition, and so they had devised something new, just for him. Basically, a corset of feathers attached to the wings. It didn't inhibit his movement, nor did it veil any of his muscular attributes (of which he had several, not to brag), so he considered it an improvement over the tacky suspenders everyone else wore.

Sitting in the make-up chair, Sherlock contemplated John's earlier offer as he dusted a light coating of bronze glitter over his face and chest. What had been the motivation? Did John  _truly_ wish to spend time in his company away from academia, or had it been a polite overture that the other man would have offered to anyone?

As his name was called for his set, Sherlock decided that it didn't matter, as it was unlikely to be extended again, and if it were, he still wouldn't feel comfortable accepting.

Walking out, Sherlock gazed into the lights, and settled into his seductive persona with little more than a roll of his shoulders.

* * *

Naked men.

_Everywhere._

That was John's first impression of Mike's club.

The second was an immediate desire to get closer to the stage, to get a better look at the black-haired man gyrating about the top of it like sin embodied; he had a nice figure, one that almost reminded John of Sherlock's, and his wings were as jet black as his hair, though there were occasional streaks of bronze in the feathers. It was an interesting mix, for sure, and as the man continued to move about, John found himself captivated and standing at the very edge of the stage, as close as he could get, before even realizing it.

The man's muscles were smooth, lean and chiseled in all the right places, and John couldn't help but imagine those muscles flexing for a completely different reason, twitching as he fucked the man into orgasm, one hand tangled in that mop of curly hair.

Then the man turned around, and John's lip parted to release a surprised gasp.  _"Sherlock!"_

* * *

The moment their eyes met, Sherlock's cheeks turned a brilliant crimson, and he finished his routine as quickly as he could without it looked unnatural, not dragging it out the way he usually did for extra tips.

No, tonight the only tip he wanted was the answer to the question, "How did John find me?"

Quickly, Sherlock shucked his outfit (or what remained of it after his performance) and threw on his customarily baggy clothing before stalking out into the general area without bothering to remove the glitter that still liberally coated his hair, face, and body. He had to find John, had to demand an explanation, had to swear him to secrecy. No one else could know.

Luckily, or perhaps not so, the other man was standing outside the employee door when Sherlock exited it; without allowing John to say whatever had been about to come out of his opened lips, Sherlock pushed him against the wall, looming down as he demanded, "How did you find me?"

How. He wanted to know how.  _Immediately._

"I — I was just in the neighborhood," stammered a suddenly intimidated John. Sherlock, with his six extra inches and menacing aura, could be quite frightening when he tried it.

John was probably some sort of pervert for being aroused by that.

"A coincidence?" Sherlock scoffed. "The universe is rarely so lazy." No, but it made sense, of a sort. John had made no mention of  _where_  he was going for drinks, and Sherlock had been foolish to assume that it would be somewhere close to campus.

"You mustn't tell  _anyone,_ " he decreed after a few moments of fast-paced reasoning. He could trust John, or so he hoped, if the man gave him his word. "Promise me, John."

 _There._  That was true desperation as Sherlock imagined being expelled from school, attacked by the rugby team, and all other sorts of scenarios, none of them pleasant.

What he would never, in his wildest dreams, have imagined was what John proceeded to say, of course.

"I will if you'll have a drink with me." The doctor-to-be was nothing if not persistent, and Sherlock was nothing if not suspicious.

"Why?" Surely his company wasn't  _that_  spectacular.

John, in a surge of forthrightness, admitted, "Because I think you're bloody sexy and I've wanted to shag your brains out since you started tutoring me, you great twit."

_Well._

_Not_ what he had expected at all. Biting his lip in a gesture that revealed just how truly young and vulnerable he was, Sherlock said, "I didn't know you were … a homosexual."

Grinning John leaned back into the wall, something predatory in him unfurling at the sight of Sherlock's display of innocence. "I'm not."

"But —"

"I'm  _bi_ sexual."

"Oh."

Well.

There really wasn't any reason to say no after that, not that Sherlock could think of.

* * *

**_and they lived happily ever after hahahaah_ **


End file.
